


crescendo e dolcissimo

by starlightpulses



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Physical Disability, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 21:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17393630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightpulses/pseuds/starlightpulses
Summary: Unconventionally, Jeno identifies people not with his eyes, but through his ears; each person he encounters has a specific blend of music that defines them. That is, until he meets Jaemin, who stands in a space of silence that Jeno finds unfamiliar and disconcerting.





	crescendo e dolcissimo

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively, Lee Jeno is a blind musician who hears a person’s inner music, and model Na Jaemin is the first person he has met who exists in complete silence.

Every person Jeno meets has their own genre, a form and style of music that defines them. The girl in the bakery where he orders his favorite chocolate croissant some mornings radiates bubblegum pop, with songs that weave stories of exciting first loves, loud parties with friends, and the uncaring recklessness of youth. The elderly woman next door, the one with a lilt in her step and a soft, rash voice, exudes classical music, bittersweet Mendelssohn that blends in with the warm aroma of the cookie platter she leaves by Jeno’s door every morning.

Most mornings in Jeno’s apartment are quiet; the only sounds are the distant stir of the city below his window and the chatter of people passing by the hallway on their way to the elevator. Warmth floods onto his skin, a pleasant, tingling sensation that he identifies as sunlight seeping through his bedroom window.

As with most mornings, his phone buzzes on the bedside table. With slight amount of difficulty, Jeno locates the device, his fingers fumbling for the correct button before he presses it to his ear.

“Rise and shine, loser!” Haechan’s voice is loud and cheerful, and Jeno can almost hear the smile in his tone. Sound drifts in from the receiver, and he hears the melody that is distinctly Haechan’s—upbeat 80s music with an underlining of rhythm and blues ( _An old soul_ , Jeno learns a few years into their friendship). Far beyond, he hears something different-–the energetic beating of drums, layered with a soft, dulcet melody underneath. Lips curving involuntarily upwards, Jeno shifts forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Is Renjun next to you?” he asks.

“God, Jeno, you are seriously creepy,” Renjun’s voice is clear and humored on the other end, and Jeno’s smile widens. Recognizing the music of his two closest friends is far from the most difficult thing to accomplish.

There are a multitude of voices in the background, shouts that echo even into Jeno’s phone. He catches the lingering tune of a march, something abrupt-sounding and almost military-like. “Somebody must be uptight over there,” he remarks, smoothing a finger across the fabric of his pant leg.

“Ugh, it’s our manager,” Haechan whines, annoyed. There’s a loud rustling as brisk footsteps approach, and the sound of the march intensifies in Jeno’s ears.

“Lee Haechan, Huang Renjun, stop lazing around, please! We need you, now. You both have three photoshoots today, and somebody new to meet and greet. Come on, chop chop!” a stern, clipped voice says.

There are audible groans from both of Jeno’s friends, along with more static-filled shuffling that Jeno identifies as Haechan’s cell phone being moved.

“Jeno,” Renjun is quiet, reluctant. “Gotta go. We’ll be at your apartment the usual time. Don’t forget, idiot.”

Jeno laughs. It’s a redundant statement, given the fact that Haechan and Renjun have been coming over to his apartment every evening for years. “I’ll try not to, but don’t get your hopes up too much,” he grins at the muffled laughter from the other end, brief in length before it disconnects with a click, returning to the comfortable silence of his apartment.

Sighing, Jeno places the phone back on the table. He rests a hand on the nearest chair as he stands, slowly maneuvering his way to the bathroom, or the direction of the bathroom, as he’s learned from years of practice (and tripping and falling).

By the time he’s finished breakfast, the small, square clock Haechan gave him for his birthday three years ago is already chiming ten. Carefully sliding his empty cereal bowl onto the counter, he pushes it cautiously, up until it clatters into the sink. Satisfied, Jeno releases his hand from the counter, proceeding with measured steps through the doorway and into the living room.

A guitar case is lying sideways against the back of the couch, pieces of paper stuffed into the front pocket in a somewhat organized fashion. Jeno reaches around tentatively and picks it up from memory, bringing the fingers of his other hand to the fold of the flap and lifting it, unclasping the case to rest on top of the couch.

There is a smooth-textured, freshly wood-smelling baby grand piano in the far corner of the room, lid halfway open and keys covered with a soft felt cloth. With precise movements, Jeno pulls it away, discarding it on the arm of the opposite couch and bringing his guitar into the cascading warmth of sunlight from the window.

The piano keys are routinely familiar to his fingertips, the rise of the black keys a comforting pattern that he can predict and feel, even in the everlasting darkness of his world. As he strums the guitar strings, swiftly turning the knobs to the tune it in pitch with the piano, he feels a sense of comfort wash over him, a lukewarm pleasure that he could almost bask in forever. This is the definition of sunshine to him, complete with faint remembrances of the color yellow from his childhood–-bright (a brightness he can no longer see), comfortable, cheerful mornings, with Haechan’s upbeat music still ringing in his ears.

  

\--

 

Haechan calls at around four in the afternoon (or, at least Jeno assumes it is about that time). His voice is hinting towards dismal, a great contrast from his earlier call. “Jeno,” he says, above the zipping of bags and music of others in the background. “Can we come a little earlier today?”

Humming quietly, Jeno halts his fingers from where they are roaming over a stack of CDs in his attempt to detect the one he is looking for by the thickness of the case. He inclines his head towards where the phone is resting on the cushion of the couch, blinking on speakerphone. “Why?”

“There’s,” pausing, Haechan lets out a breath tainted with reluctance. “There’s a new guy that came in today, and we have to take him out with us to ‘get acquainted.’ He’s going to be working with us mostly, so I figured he’d have to meet you sooner or later, anyway.”

Jeno analyzes the amount of burdening in Haechan’s voice. “You don’t like him, do you,” he concludes, flipping around to sink back into the cushions of the couch beside his phone.

“Jesus, that guy has got some kind of stick—no, mind you—probably a steel rod, up his ass,” Haechan groans out, voice dripping with annoyance.

The sound of powerful drums overpowering a slow melody approaches the phone. “You talking to Jeno?” Renjun’s voice comes on.

“The one and only.”

“Jeno, you won’t believe—” abruptly, Renjun is cut off, and it takes Jeno a moment to realize that someone else has neared the phone. Furrowing his eyebrows, Jeno strains his ears for some kind of music, but he hears nothing unfamiliar stuck in between Haechan and Renjun’s melodies. He frowns and shrugs it off as his friends’ music being overpowering; he’s due to meet this guy in less than ten minutes, anyway.

There’s an awkward silence, interrupted by an unfamiliar, jarringly close voice. “Hello, Haechan, Renjun.” Jeno figures the stranger must be nodding in acknowledgement.

“Hello, Jaemin.” Haechan sounds strained, and Jeno bites his lip to try and prevent the laughter rising in his throat. “Are you joining us for dinner today?”

“If it’s not too much of an inconvenience, it would be my pleasure.” the voice replies smoothly. Jeno can already tell why Renjun hates this guy–-reinforced by the barely stifled laughter from the latter that Jeno can hear through the array of background noises on the other end.

“That’s cool, Jaemin. We have somebody we want you to meet.” There’s a brief pause. “Jeno, we’ll be there in a few.”

“Mm,” Jeno pushes the end call button and rests his head back against the couch. He tries not to think too hard about the fact that even when Haechan’s music had clearly traveled further away, he still could not for the life of him find a trace of this Jaemin guy's music.

 

\--

 

The doorbell rings precisely ten minutes later, a mixture of voices floating from the crack beneath the worn wood at the bottom. Pressing a hand to the wall, Jeno finds his way to the door, unlocking it with deft fingers in obvious familiarity.

He is met by warmth enveloping him, strong arms wrapped for an instant around him before Haechan pulls back. Jeno smiles at the recognizable scent of his best friend—a mixture of fresh pine and light musk, sweat from being beneath dusty lights for prolonged periods, and the release of exhaustion. “You’re performing for us today,” Haechan states, and it is much less a question than a fact. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Perhaps,” quirking an eyebrow, Jeno steps back a little. “If you guys behave.” He is suddenly aware of a looming silence from his left side, and turns his head in what he presumes to be that direction with innocent curiosity. “Renjun?”

Clearing his throat in a clearly uncomfortable manner, Renjun claps a hand on Jeno’s back. Silent, Jeno waits for the proceedings. “Jaemin, this is Lee Jeno, musician and song-writer. Jeno, this is Na Jaemin, our agency’s new model,” with a strong emphasis on the _“our”_. Renjun tightens his grip on Jeno’s shoulder.

Jeno, on the other hand, has barely noticed. Taken aback by the eerie, definite silence of the newcomer, he struggles for appropriate wording, completely thrown off. “Um,” he almost chokes when Renjun squeezes his shoulder in a slight warning, because this Jaemin is obviously some kind of vital addition to the agency.

"It’s nice to meet you, Jeno,” Jaemin greets, his voice low and smooth, the timbre strangely sending a jolt of electricity down Jeno's spine. Jaemin’s greeting sounds earnest, with no trace of uncertainty or the usual hint of surprise that strangers have upon seeing Jeno’s blindness for the first time. “I hope to be further acquainted with you in the near future.”

Lips tightening, Jeno nods again, forcing himself to smile with much effort. “You too,” he replies, his chest clenching as he feels Renjun’s hand guiding him towards the door, where his shoes are aligned beside the wall.

“Come on, Jeno, we have to get going,” uncertainty is hidden beneath the attempt at casualty in Haechan’s voice, and Jeno feels his toes hit the edge of his shoes. With a deep breath, he pulls them on, following Renjun’s hand at his elbow past the doorway and into the hall.

“Keys, Jeno.” Renjun’s voice is uncommonly patient, softer than his usual witty remarks. Thankful for the reminder, Jeno digs into his pocket, hands barely trembling as he hands Haechan the set of keys and waits for the click to signal his apartment is secure. The keys that return to him are hard-edged in his palm, surfaces unbearably cold. He feels cold all over, actually-–a frigid, lost kind of cold. The pad of Jaemin’s footsteps is close by his heel, and he inhales sharply, confusion spreading through his veins. The thought that somebody who has no music, the loss of his only ability to relate to meeting strangers is suddenly overwhelmingly frightful, and Jeno almost trips over the step down on the way to the elevator in his swirl of disfigured emotions.

"Jeno,” Haechan’s breath is warm, familiar at his ear. “Are you okay? Should we go back?”

Immediately, Jeno shakes his head curtly. “No! No, I’m fine,” he tucks his hands into his pockets, letting Haechan slip two fingers around the curve of his elbow in order to guide him when they step out of the elevator. What’s strange is the piercing sensation of Jaemin’s gaze on him the entire time, even as they walk out the lobby doors. Jeno has never been this acutely aware of somebody’s eyes on him before, even though people watching him probably haven’t been uncommon since he’s gained his disability.

“I just have to drop by a music store, and Jaemin’s coming with me. We’ll meet you at the restaurant?” Haechan says, seeking confirmation. Jeno nods, feeling grateful, unsure if Haechan’s little detour is a purposeful response to his discomfort.

The whoosh of car tires is indiscreet, almost non-existent. Several doors open and close, and Renjun’s music surrounds him, a hand at his elbow. Involuntarily, Jeno leans into the familiar touch of his friend, breathing out shakily.

“Jeno?” Concern is evident in Renjun’s tone. “Dude, you’re scaring me. Are you alright?”

Jeno begins to nod, to assure Renjun that he’s fine, but then he remembers it’s just Renjun, and he blurts it out. “He has no music.” It sounds stupid, even to his own ears, but he figures if Renjun or Haechan don’t understand, then nobody will. “I can’t hear anything from him.”

For a second, Renjun doesn’t answer, and Jeno is about to give up when he hears the quiet, unsure reply. “Are you for real?”

When Jeno first told Haechan and Renjun about the music he hears, they didn’t believe him. It wasn’t a surprise, really, because nobody ever had before them. People either said Jeno needed to grow up and stop imagining things, or they regarded him as a freak, for which his disability was only a plus. But instead of those options, Haechan and Renjun went for analyzing the facts–-they began to pull out different people from the crowd, began to walk in certain directions towards people to see if Jeno could do what he claimed. With each passerby, Jeno proclaimed a different sensation-–rhythm and blues mixed in with country, the overwhelming instrumentals in classical, the commonplace pop-rock, soulful ballads, nursery songs-–and each time, his description matched the person’s preferences and personality perfectly when they inquired. For every properly matched description of a person's inner music, Haechan and Renjun found themselves gaining awe for this newfound ability in their friend.

Jeno hasn’t always been blind. He has vague memories from when he was a toddler, random flashes of color beneath his eyelids that once present, disturb him for days until he is able to let it out in a new piece of music he composes, a new emotion to release and smother inside the notes Haechan scrawls across the staff for him as he plays out the melody. From what he recalls, Haechan and Renjun have always been there for him, ever since the crash.

As for the crash, he can’t really remember many details, since he was only six at that time. What he was told in later years was that it wasn’t anybody’s fault—it was raining hard and the roads were extremely slippery when the tires of the car opposite theirs on the road slid and spun, colliding with them and sending both vehicles into the railing. His parents were gone on the spot, but he survived, losing only his sight.

Most of what Jeno remembers, though, is pain in his eyes. Sometimes, when he tries harder to prod at his memory, the striking remembrance of that pain is so overbearing that he wants to give up instantly. He remembers screaming for his parents, a blur of darkness and voices that made his heart burst with fear, mind spinning in confusion and tears streaking hot paths down his cheeks. He remembers a hand at his elbow, the gentle brownies-and-friendship smell of Haechan’s mother as he buried his head into her shirt, uncontrollable sobs convulsing through his figure as Haechan’s tiny arms encircled him from behind. He remembers darkness, rubbing his eyes frantically in the unfamiliar smell of a hospital bed, starchy covers pulled up to his chin and legs swathed in casts. He’s not sure how it happened, but before he knew it, his world was a completely dark one, lacking of light, and, more importantly, his parents.

He remembers a long period of time wherein he blamed himself for everything–-his parents dying, growing up blind, having almost everyone his age (with Haechan and Renjun as lone exceptions) stray around him in careful circles, as if he were a porcelain doll that would break any second.

But there was one time when he was standing on the sidelines of a soccer game, the shouts of the referee and shrill blow of the whistle reminiscent in his ears. Jeno had been imagining the old, familiar feel of a soccer ball at his feet, the hard, confident material against his cleats–-when suddenly, there it was, the ball pressing at his toes. Instinctively, he’d kicked it with all his strength, pointed in the direction he’d practiced in the couple of years before the accident.

There’d been abrupt silence, like everybody was holding one breath. Later, Haechan would tell him, the ball had flown through the air, soaring above the players’ heads like it had grown angel’s wings, and plopped smack down behind the goalie on the opposite end of the field, rolling for a brief distance into the middle of the goal. Jeno laughed, because it was just like Haechan to exaggerate a success story, but still felt a full, brimming sense of achievement inside of him when each player on the teams came up to him one by one to clap him on the back and shake his hand. “Good game,” he said, the smile unfolding on his face at each compliment, each respectful call of his name.

Life eased into a straight line of familiarity thereon out. Of course, with a disability like Jeno’s, there were always times when he would feel miserable and undeserving, but for the most part, he has done what he might not have even been able to if he had the sense of sight and living happily with his family.

The source of the music he composes, if he had to dive down into the bottom of it, would be his experiences after the crash. He’d discovered the music inside of everybody not long after the crash occurred, and at first, had hated the existence of it. Music had never been his strong point–-his childhood had not much to do with small, black notes on a staff, not much to do with sitting around at a piano all day to figure out the key signatures and flats and sharps, not much to do with threading melodies together and tying them at the end, like a shiny, exciting Christmas gift.

Every person Jeno has come in contact with since the accident has his or her own music. Some people are multiple genres mixed together–-Renjun, as a perfect example, with his hard outer shell and soft, squishy interior that Jeno likes to poke at all too often, reaching inside to stretch out the beautiful, inner ballads he quite often detects hidden inside Renjun’s music.

“So,” at the present, Renjun’s ballads are strong in position, deafening over his usual hardcore drumbeat, and Jeno can’t help the smile that flits across his face. “What’s up with that? Why are you smiling?”

Laughing, Jeno draws away. “Because you’re secretly soft,” he comments, continuing before Renjun can protest. “And I don’t know what’s up with him. It’s never happened before.”

“Is he, like…” Jeno waits as Renjun searches for an appropriate word. “Not human?” Renjun’s voice drops, but sounds hopeful, “Is he an alien?”

“Um,” Jeno laughs quietly. “I hope not.” He feels a strange sort of stirring inside of him, and shifts uncomfortably. The insane desire to see Jaemin’s face has overcome him, but he pushes it away almost instantaneously, mentally scolding himself for even allowing such a thought to enter his brain (and why _Jaemin_ , of all people?). “Who knows, though, maybe some outer planet sent him down to discipline us pathetic human beings.”

It’s Renjun’s turn to laugh, a low, scoff-like rumble that pleases Jeno, reminding him of relaxed sunny days and tidbits of memory contained inside him, and the color yellow. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was,” is the final conclusion, and Jeno bites back a smile at the agreement, swinging his arm to brush against Renjun’s wrist in a friendly manner and sidling closer to bump shoulders together. For once, the other makes no protest (he’s usually wary of being touchy, though he relents to Jeno more often than anyone), and Jeno feels the cheerfulness of the morning returning to him, the weird, queasy curiosity of Jaemin dissolving as he lets Renjun lead him forward.

 

\--

 

Haechan and Jaemin are already waiting in front of the restaurant by the time Jeno and Renjun arrive. Jeno assumes they took a car-–he doesn’t mind much, he’s always preferred fresh city air to the muted atmosphere of a moving vehicle. He catches a whiff of steamy dinner cooking from the restaurant, stomach growling in appeal as Renjun counts out the steps for him leading up to the doors.

When Jeno reaches for the handle of the door, a hand lands on his, fingers grasping his knuckles confidently as it helps him pull the door open. The hand is unfamiliar to Jeno; fingers strong and assured, skin rough in certain places. Eyebrows furrowing together, he lingers his touch upon the palm of the hand, recognizing the usual rough patches of skin that shows in baseball players.

He only recognizes the hand as Jaemin’s, though, when the other’s voice sounds not far from his ears. “This is a nice place,” is the polite comment, and Haechan murmurs some kind of absent agreement; Renjun doesn’t even bother. In fact, Renjun is so engrossed in pointedly avoiding Jaemin’s uncomfortable politeness that he fails to notify Jeno of the stairs up ahead, upon which Jeno stumbles and nearly falls flat on his face.

Again, the same unfamiliar touch is there, but this time at his elbow, palms grasping his arm firmly to help him rise up from the step. Renjun’s hand is not far behind, tugging at his sleeve to assist him up and pulling him away from Jaemin’s hands. “Sorry,” Renjun mutters in his ear, and Jeno shrugs in forgiveness, still trying to brush off the prickling, strangely warm sensation Jaemin has left imprinted inside him.

When they reach the dining area, Jeno takes the chance to slip back, moving to walk alongside with Jaemin’s footsteps. He feels a slow, seeping relief when Jaemin doesn’t protest, and nearly jumps out of his skin when there’s even a hand at his elbow, the same place Haechan and Renjun usually guide him by. _Observant_ , Jeno thinks, and turns his head sideways. “Do you play baseball?”

Jaemin’s hand momentarily drifts away from his elbow; Jeno guesses he is startled. “Yes,” comes the surprised answer, followed by curious silence. “How did you know?”

“Your hands,” Jeno lets himself be led into a chair, and sits down, feels Jaemin sink down into the seat beside him. “They’re calloused in the way a baseball player would be.”

With a light laugh, Jaemin scoots his chair a bit closer. Jeno catches the faint scent of a fresh cotton and roses, mixed in with a concoction of home and fresh air–-sort of like sunshine, he thinks, the way the air smells on bright mornings like today’s. “I never thought of that,” Jaemin informs him, a smile in his voice. “That’s interesting.”

“Jeno’s an interesting person.” Brisk and measured, Renjun diverts their conversation, his music rising into an upscale drum procession. Hiding his smile, Jeno leans forward.

“Thank you, Renjun. I’m glad you acknowledge my superiority.”

“Oh, shut up, Jeno. Haechan, please order the food soon so he can start eating and stop talking.”

Amused, Jeno retreats, reclining back in his chair to enjoy the wonderful mixture of music erupting from the people in tables nearby. He finds an assortment of many different genres, ranging from jazz to pop opera–- _that’s something new_ , he thinks, and smiles to himself, drumming his fingers along his thighs as he tunes in on an obscure, contemporary classical song.

“Jeno?”

Interrupted from his reverie, Jeno starts at the sound of Jaemin’s inquiring voice. “Yes?”

“I just– I’ve been trying to get your attention, since Haechan and Renjun went to wash their hands,” Jaemin seems almost sheepish, a large contrast from the original, stiffly polite tone he’d used in Jeno’s apartment. “I was wondering, are you really going to perform for us tonight?”

A slow smile spreads across Jeno’s features, cheeks tucking in a curve. “Would you like me to?”

“Yes, very much so,” there’s a pause, as if Jaemin has just begun to hesitate. “But I mean, if it’s too much trouble, you don’t have to. I was…I really enjoy your music,” he concludes all in one breath, like they’re words he’s been holding in for much too long a while. “I love it a lot, actually.”

Pleased, Jeno feels his nerves warming up. He loves it whenever someone mentions his music, albeit negatively or positively. It gives him an adrenaline rush, like he used to have when there was a soccer ball at his feet. “Do you, really?”

“Yes,” comes the soft reply. “It’s beautiful. I’ve always wondered where it comes from, what kind of genius could produce such splendor.”

With a laugh, Jeno clasps his hands together to rest on the table. “Do you always talk like a book?”

“Ye– I mean, no, not really,” there’s a laugh from Jaemin as well. “I just wanted you to know I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time now, ever since I heard your first song. You’ve been a great inspiration in my life–-or, your music, at the least,” he is completely serious, Jeno can tell. “It’s helped me through hard times.”

“I’m glad,” Jeno’s lips quirk upward pleasantly, but his tone is sincere. “I’ve been through quite a few hard times too.”

“I know,” is the immediate reply. “I mean, I don’t know, but I know your story.”

The words dawn on Jeno. “That’s why you weren’t surprised when you saw me,” he remarks thoughtfully, voicing his thoughts aloud. “And I’d been wondering.”

“Oh, man, did I ruin my good first impression?” There’s a hint of a smile in Jaemin’s voice, and Jeno finds himself smiling back, not on purpose.

“No!” Jeno laughs. “No, not at all.”

The same touch from the door-opening inches onto his hand, warmth flooding through his veins at the contact. Without retracting his hand, Jeno continues to smile, the initial queasiness about Jaemin’s presence transforming into something lighter, exciting in comparison to Jeno’s otherwise black-and-white take on life; familiar or unfamiliar.

Even when Renjun and Haechan return from the washroom, crowding around Jeno to put a smile on his face, he realizes he is increasingly aware of Jaemin’s eyes on him, the feeling of excitement surging inside him at the thought. Music or not, he thinks, there’s something about Jaemin that twists inside of him, a deep ache of longing that is beginning to form inside his heart.

  

\--

  

The streets are full of nighttime city sounds by the time they step out, shouts of teenagers and cheerful barking of neighboring dogs piercing the crisp night air. Just as the sound of a car nears, Jaemin volunteers nonchalantly to walk with Jeno, his voice carrying all the sincerity in the world.

Jeno just nods when Haechan questions his name, and he can feel his friends’ uncertain gazes on him even as the car doors slam closed. Jaemin’s hand is at his arm, fingers slowly becoming a familiar touch at his elbow like Haechan and Renjun’s have throughout the years. Trusting, Jeno allows Jaemin to lead him down the sidewalk, cautioning him to step around fruit stands and the occasional homeless leaning against the walls. With each homeless person they pass by (Jeno can tell when it’s a person he’s walking around by the music in his ears), there’s a clinking that trails at his heels, the obvious sound of coins being clanged together.

They’re halfway to Jeno’s apartment building when Jeno speaks up about it. “Do you give money to everyone you pass?”

“Mmm,” is his only casual answer, and he can’t tell if Jaemin is shrugging it off to act cool or just doesn’t want to talk about it. From what he’s learned about the other, he figures it’s the latter. But instead of pressing further, he decides to leave it be.

“Have you been playing baseball long?”

The footsteps beside his hesitate. “Since I was in first grade.”

In adequate awe, Jeno halts for a brief second. “You must be really good.”

“No,” Jaemin’s voice is curt, unflinching. Jeno reels back a little, bites his lip in regret; he must have hit a still healing wound. “Not really.”

They don’t speak for a block or two, and Jeno soaks in the night air, the soles of his sneakers scraping against the cement of the sidewalk, breathing in the smells of the city–smoke, late night cooking, perfumes and colognes. He tries to imagine the color gray, the dusky shade of sky he remembers evenings to be, but unlike yellow, he can’t seem to recall much, only short, blurry clips of his mother’s back standing at a stove, the red-checkered apron tied around her waist, the feel of bare grass in the park tickling his bare toes.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Breaking away from his efforts, Jeno turns in Jaemin’s direction with a smile. “I was thinking about the color gray,” he replies honestly, and feels the hand at his elbow slip away. “Jaemin?”

The hand returns to his elbow, along with a square piece of fabric that is placed into his palm. “Feel this?”

It’s a piece of felt. Jeno nods, rubbing his fingers on the soft, wooly material, tiny pieces that are slowly breaking apart from the cloth.

“It’s like that.” Jaemin curls fingers around Jeno’s, skin smoothing across skin as he traces the outline of the square on Jeno’s palm. “Soft, but rough. It’s dark, but light. It blends in,” he continues, as Jeno’s fingers close around the square of fabric. “It blends in with the skyscrapers, the fancy limousines passing by on the street. It blends in with the fog of smoke. It’s like the middle voice in a song–-it’s not the melody, not the brightest or the most beautiful, not yellow or orange. It’s not the lowest voice, not the deep, soulful pounding of beat inside your chest, not black or blue or deep magenta, purple. It’s right in the middle of everything, and nothing’s right without it. That’s gray.”

The felt is now warm in Jeno’s hands from his radiated body heat, from the warmth absorbed by Jaemin’s fingers, still entangled with his own. “Thank you,” Jeno whispers, lips lifting (and heart soaring, a throb of life inside him that he’s never touched, never experienced in his life before). “Jaemin.”

“My mother was blind.” Jaemin’s voice is trembling, a solid attempt to stay strong but failing, like a lone leaf in a gust of autumn wind. Jeno tucks the felt into his pocket, keeping his hold on Jaemin’s fingers and interlacing them together with his. “She was the greatest woman I ever knew. But you know,” his laugh is sad, tired. “The good people always go early. I was eight when she passed away.”

Just as he opens his mouth to say the complementary _I’m sorry_ , Jeno closes it again. He thinks of how Jaemin hasn’t mentioned a word, up to this point, about sorry, about pity for his disability, all the careful avoiding and planned pitying he’s despised since he gained his blindness. “I know how it feels,” he chooses to say instead, and feels Jaemin’s fingers shake under his, in sync with the shaking of his head.

“I shouldn’t be burdening you with my life. You, of all people, know enough of pain—”

“No,” surprising even himself, Jeno hears his own voice saying. “I want to know.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Jaemin’s hesitance is heavy in the air, condensing like droplets upon a windowpane in the dead mornings of winter. “My father,” the silence breaks with, “My father was an alcoholic. The rare times he was sober, he tried to make up his misgivings with being strict. That’s what he thought the definition of being a good father was. When he was drunk, well,” pain seeps through the cracking in Jaemin’s voice, pain that Jeno feels reflected in his own heart. “Let’s just say it wasn’t a pretty sight. He hated that I played baseball–he used to be a famed soccer player, and he hated baseball. He hated the sight of my bat, my baseball, my glove, my hat. It was like he hated the sight of me.” Jeno smiles at the wry, reminiscent tone of Jaemin’s voice. “I used to sneak out to the field at night to meet up with my friends, and we’d bring flashlights to practice in the dark. On the team at school,” pride swells inside the words, “I was one of the best. I can still hear the cheers from my second to last game there, last inning. We were two home runs down, bases fully loaded, and I was up at bat. It was a dream come true,” Jaemin laughs, like he is back at the game, dust collecting under the skid of his feet. “Best day of my life.”

They both stand in silence for a moment, letting the whirs and roars of city life pass them by. “Not all soccer players hate baseball,” Jeno comments idly, and it makes Jaemin laugh pleasantly, a bright, playful sound in comparison to the rawness of his story. “Not all baseball players become models, either.”

“Not all the people you meet don’t have their own music, either.”

Surprised, Jeno freezes. “How did you know?”

“Haechan and Renjun told me,” Jaemin sounds halfway torn between amused and disappointed. “While you were zoning out.”

“Oh,” is all Jeno can manage, throat constricting as he tries to think of an explanation for the circumstances he doesn’t even understand. “It doesn’t mean that you’re—”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind too much.” Jaemin sounds so honest that Jeno is prone to believing him, letting the subject go until further discussion. The silence between them is comfortable, and only when Jeno’s apartment building is already in sight does he remember that his fingers are still entwined with Jaemin’s, hands swinging between them like a bridge.

Jaemin appears to remember simultaneously, for his fingers begin to loosen reluctantly around Jeno’s, as if to inconspicuously draw away, but Jeno tightens his grasp, squeezing Jaemin’s hand in what he hopes to be a reassuring manner (he doesn’t remember much about holding hands, not even with his parents, but he’s pretty sure it’s warmer than anything he’s ever felt).

In his world of darkness, the one thing Jeno misses as they pass through the doors of the lobby is Jaemin’s brilliant, involuntary smile, eyes twinkling like the stars in a cloudless night. Later on, as Jaemin sits in attention on his couch, Jeno plays a new melody on his piano--notes drawn out, sustained and weaving, ringing of hope and expectation, as a new feeling unfurls in his chest.

  

\--

 

Jaemin’s visits to his apartment start to become a routine, almost more than Haechan and Renjun’s. Jaemin’s warm, gentle, yet cautious personality soon reveals itself from under his previously cold and polite facade, and Renjun and Haechan begrudgingly admit that they’ve judged him too soon after spending time together. Jeno learns that Jaemin was previously a model under a rival agency, and that he is to be included in all of Haechan and Renjun’s photo shoots from now on–-which, in itself, is a feat, seeing as Haechan and Renjun are the stars of their agency.

But when Jaemin comes over and takes him out on walks in the park, pointing out colors like he’s a normal person and describing them in terms of musicality, Jeno just thinks of him as Jaemin. Strong-willed, determined, soft-hearted Jaemin-–with the now familiar gentleness of his low, soothing voice, the firm pad of his footsteps on the dirt pathway, the calloused palm covering Jeno’s elbow. The lack of music no longer bothers Jeno; it’s just another quirk he’s learned to accept about Jaemin, something he’s come to appreciate in the mess of never-ending music in his life.

Often, Jaemin likes to sit and listen to him play the guitar, humming to harmonize with his melodies and fixing lyrics for him when they fail to rhyme. The papers stuffed in Jeno’s guitar case are increasingly filling with Jaemin’s handwriting (Haechan seems happy enough to give up this tedious work to Jaemin), a deep imprint of scrawl that Jeno can feel indented into the paper beneath his fingertips.

They are sitting at the piano one day, the sound of Jaemin’s pen scratching against the papers when Jeno’s fingers abruptly stop, hands falling into his lap with quiet dignity. In surprise, Jaemin’s pen screeches to a halt, and Jeno feels the hand at his elbow, a silent question.

“You’re weird today,” he says in reply to the silence, and senses Jaemin moving away. With rapid movements, he grabs onto Jaemin’s wrist before he can completely pull out of his reach. Jaemin’s fingers are clammier than usual, cold, nervous sweat tainting the usual warmth of his fingertips. “What’s wrong?”

The silence from Jaemin is almost audible, a loud drone of anxiety in his ears. Finally, Jaemin tugs away, and Jeno releases him reluctantly, dropping his hand with an air of disappointment. “Jeno,” Jaemin’s voice is neutral, somehow sad in nature. “What does it take to forgive a person?”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Jeno spins around on the seat to face the direction Jaemin’s voice is coming from. “Is this about your father?”

Instead of answering, Jaemin presses onwards. “If I disappeared for, say a period of time, would you forgive me?”

Jeno’s heart swoops down low into his stomach as the worst possibilities fly through his head–the top one being disease, and he gulps. “Are you…sick?”

“Me?” Jaemin seems shocked. “Oh, no, not me.” There’s something incomplete about the way he says it, like he’s preoccupied, and even though Jeno knows he’s right there, he can tell Jaemin’s heart is far from here. Desperately, Jeno bites lip in an attempt to retrieve it, to make Jaemin know he cares.

“Jaemin,” his tone is careful. “Are you planning on disappearing?”

When the other doesn’t reply, Jeno reaches forward, nearly too far before Jaemin’s hands grip onto his, fingers pressing gently onto his skin to steady him. Holding on tightly, Jeno shifts forward, until he can feel the warmth of Jaemin’s body heat, the familiar smell of cotton and roses, and sunny mornings drifting towards him. Uneasily, Jaemin’s fingers loosen, but Jeno catches them again.

“Tell me your favorite color,” Jeno tries to keep the quaver out of his voice, pulse racing where Jaemin’s fingertips are hot against his. “Your favorite music. Your favorite—”

“Jeno, what are you—”

“Just, tell me something!” A sudden panic begins to claw its way out of Jeno’s mouth, panic at losing this person, this something precious Jaemin has become, sneaking into his heart without him knowing. He wrenches away from Jaemin on his own, burying his head into the clumsy, heated cup of his own hands. “Anything,” he murmurs, words choking. “I need to know.”

“Jeno,” there are hands on his own, a thumb massaging circles on his palm. “I’ll tell you anything. You know that.”

Raising his head, Jeno brings one of Jaemin’s hands to his cheek, feeling the rough brush of the calloused palm, soft fingertips from holding the pen too tightly. “What do I look like?”

There’s a pause, a breath of quietness. “Beautiful,” comes the profound answer, and Jeno feels himself grabbing the word, holding it close to his chest. “You’re like an undefined color, like a rainbow all mixed together and squashed. You’re all the genres of music, from every strange, beat-less piece to the cheesiest love song.” Jaemin’s voice is obviously strained, almost shaky. “You’re beautiful,” he repeats, and Jeno wants to believe it, wants to steal the words and lock them up in a shelf in his heart forever.

“What do you look like?”

Jaemin’s hand against his cheek twitches, slowly pulling away, but the fingers around Jeno’s knuckles make Jeno’s hand follow in suit. Jeno starts slightly at the touch of unfamiliar skin against his palm, the hardness of defined cheekbones, the bridge of a nose, straight eyebrows. He feels Jaemin’s eyelids fluttering closed beneath his wandering fingers, the soft tickle of long eyelashes, the silky skin of a model under his touch. Moving downward, Jeno finds Jaemin’s lips, slightly chapped, jutting out slightly in a pout with the corners curled, parting patiently for his fingers.

Somehow, Jaemin’s presence has leaned in towards him–-the scent of cotton and vanilla is stronger than before, heat radiating in waves towards him. Jeno slows the pace of his fingers on Jaemin’s face, lingering upon the lips, heartbeat thudding through his entire body like the rigid, pounding beat of a dance song, ears ringing with the same undefined excitement that prickled his nerves the first time he met Jaemin. Hands enclose around his, bringing them down to rougher, more solid fabric, the cotton threading of a T-shirt. He fists his hands into it just as something soft touches his lips, something that moves and parts and he recognizes it as the lips he’d touched with his fingers moments earlier. Involuntarily, Jeno leans into the contact, reveling in the explosion of tingling sensations that travel down his spine, a warmth that fills him up like the sunshine of a new day and so much more.

“Jeno,” Jaemin is whispering against his mouth, gentle murmurs of his name, and Jeno slides his hands around to encircle a slender waist. Jaemin tastes faintly of mint and something sweet, like the chocolate croissant Jeno had for breakfast this morning. Every feeling he could ever name wells up inside him, and he sighs into the kiss, nuzzling closer into fine, rose-scented hair.

The realization is suddenly so clear, and he can’t help but laugh, embracing Jaemin tighter. “What?” Jaemin’s voice trembles through him, curious and affectionate.

“I know why you don’t have music,” Jeno confides into his hair, and feels Jaemin’s head lower into the crook of his shoulder, heavy and warm. “You’re everything.”

“Everything?” Jaemin laughs into his shirt, hot breath pleasant against the skin of his sensitive collarbone. “That’s pretty vague for a genius like you.”

“Everything,” smiling, Jeno pulls back, feeling Jaemin’s gaze on his face (because, of course, Jaemin’s gaze is always the one he can feel the strongest). “For me, you’re just everything.”

This time, Jaemin’s lips are confident and insistent upon his, and his smile widens, the fleeting remembrance of a rainbow clear cut in his mind before he completely lets go.

 

\--

 

Jeno awakens to his phone buzzing persistently. With a sleepy groan, he slaps his hand on the bedside table, fumbling for the device in vain attempts. After a few moments, his fingers barely touch the familiar cold surface before it clatters unceremoniously onto the ground, loud and chaotic in the silence of his apartment.

The sunlight is barely existent through the windows, coldness bearing harshly upon his skin. Jeno finds the phone lying on the floor, still vibrating endlessly, and manages to press the answer button, his only greeting a grunt of displeasure.

“Jeno,” Haechan’s voice is frantic, thready. “Jeno, what happened yesterday?”

“Yesterday? What? Haechan, why the hell, so early in the morning—”

“I know it’s early, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t wake you up unless it was urgent. Jeno, wasn’t Jaemin at your apartment yesterday? What did you do? What did he do?” At the hurried, completely lost tone in his friend’s voice, Jeno tries his best to clear the hazy cloud of sleep in his mind, thoughts floating back to yesterday’s events.

“Um,” with hesitance, Jeno rests the phone on top of his bedcovers. “The usual?” He fidgets, refusing to say anything about the kiss.

Haechan senses the denial in his voice instantly. “Jeno, please. I need answers. Jaemin--he left a resignation letter in the manager’s office early this morning. He was so early that only the security guy was here, and according to him, Jaemin wasn’t exactly in the best of moods.” There’s a rustle on the other end, and Renjun’s music greets him, loud and pounding over the line.

“Jeno, did he say anything to you yesterday? God damn it, that idiot. We have a million photo shoots today, and he chooses to—”

“It’s not his fault,” a seeping dread brims inside of Jeno, along with a feeling of expectancy. Somewhere inside of him, he’d known this was going to happen, ever since Jaemin’s strange questioning the day before, as much as he regrets admitting it to himself. “He—” the words clog in his throat, and he swallows the sudden tears rising up, trying to prevent the weak sinking of his heart. “He’s going to forgive his father.”

 

\--

 

Three weeks pass with no sign of existence from Jaemin. Jeno resorts to spending his days inside, disregarding the flurry of thoughts that threaten to enter his mind without precedence. Instead, he solely focuses on his music, playing his old songs over and over until he can hear the melodies even when he isn’t.

Haechan returns to writing down notes for him, but it doesn’t feel the same. He knows his friend notices it, too–-how the production of new songs has slowed down to an almost complete stop, variety in music dwindling until all Jeno is playing are long, drawn-out ballads, bittersweet melodies in the form of heartbreak. Haechan and Renjun look at each other in understanding, realizing that Jaemin’s sudden disappearance coincided with Jeno’s new preference for music that spoke of loss and pining.

Haechan storms out of Jeno’s bedroom one day, where he’d been holed up all morning doing God-knows-what. “Jeno,” his footsteps near, but Jeno continues to play an old, traditional love song, his fingers melting against the rigidity of the piano keys. “Jeno.”

Haechan’s hand taps his shoulder, and Jeno stops abruptly, shrugging it off. “What,” he replies with an air of nonchalance, as if he isn’t breaking down inside, isn’t letting the absence of Jaemin eat away at him with each passing day. “You’re interrupting my composition.”

“Number one,” Haechan’s presence settles down onto the piano bench beside him, and he moves in reluctance to give his friend room. “That’s not your composition, even I know that. And number two,” a cold, curved device is stuffed into his palm. “There’s a call for you.”

Jeno’s heart quickens. “Who?”

“Go open the door.”

“Wha—” he isn’t given time to finish the question before Haechan shoves him gently to the door, his hand landing on the doorknob. Gripping the cold, metallic surface, Jeno turns it swiftly, letting the door swing open against his leg.

The scent of cotton and roses fill his nostrils. “Jaemin,” he breathes, wrapping his arms around the figure launched against his chest. The other is shaking beneath a worn fabric jacket, and Jeno’s not sure if it’s from the cold or something else.

The phone is being taken out of his hand, replaced by rough-skinned fingers, a calloused palm. “There’s somebody I want you to meet,” Jaemin says, voice laced with thick emotion. Jeno nods, and lets himself be led out into the hallway.

 

\--

 

The hospital is on the outskirts of the city, Jaemin tells him. The subway ride is about an hour long, enough time to cause cramps in their calf muscles as they scrunch up in tiny seats beside the window. Jeno rests his head against the glass, listening to the running sound of the subway on its metal tracks. Jaemin’s hand fits against his like a glove, fingers tracing random patterns around the edge of his palm.

“He wanted me to be a singer,” Jaemin says after ten minutes of silence (not that Jeno has been counting). “Or a model. He said I shouldn’t put a pretty face like mine to waste by doing something like baseball.” Something like remorse lines Jaemin’s voice, and Jeno moves to run a hand up his arm, feels him shiver in remembrance. “I ran away from home when I was sixteen.”

“You became homeless,” Jeno deciphers, and feels Jaemin nod, chin pressing down on the back of his hand.

“I heard your first song playing in a tiny music shop, where I was looking for a job. It struck something in me-–how young your voice sounded, how pained, like me, my life. The guy at the counter told me about you–-that you were eighteen, that you’d been blinded and lost your parents when you were five, that you were some kind of music virtuoso. I was in awe,” the sound of the rushing of the subway quiets in Jeno’s ears as he focuses in on Jaemin’s voice. “I started out helping out at the store, running errands and organizing CDs on the shelves. He’d always play your music for me, the storekeeper,” there’s a smile in the words. “And he fed me.”

“So that’s why you gave them coins every time we passed,” Jeno’s voice is barely above a whisper. “You know.”

“I know,” Jaemin agrees. “I know what it’s like to sit out on the streets, strumming rusty strings of a guitar and looking, searching for a kind face. One coin makes all the difference, one smile, one chance at eye contact.” The subway shudders to a halt and the doors slide open, the chatter and clacking of footsteps brisk near the entryway. “I learned to play a lot of your songs. They were the crowd’s favorite,” Jaemin squeezes his hand lightly. “They meant a lot to me, too.”

The doors slide closed, and the subway lurches forward, rolling back on track. “Did you ever go back home?”

“No,” Jaemin’s reply is hoarse, remorseful beneath the rumble of the subway. “I was recruited by a modeling agency for my ‘pretty face.’ I was lucky. I never looked back.” He folds his fingers around Jeno’s, tapping imaginary rhythms on his skin. “Not until I met you.”

“Your father,” the words are careful on his lips. “He never looked for you?”

"Not until last week,” there’s a bitter laugh, a harsh sound like the grating of metal bars, and Jeno winces. “When the hospital in my hometown called the agency asking for me.”

Silence hovers over them, a suffocating blanket of uncertainty, of regret. Finally, Jeno slides his hand upwards, coming to rest upon the elegant, protruding cheekbones. “Jaemin,” he whispers, and waits for the other’s lips to locate his own. He absorbs the sorrow Jaemin pours into the kiss, the pain that beats in sync with their hearts. “Jaemin, are you doing this to forgive him, or forgive yourself?”

There’s a slight pause, and Jeno feels Jaemin’s head weighing down onto his shoulder, warmth curling into the side of his body. “I don’t know,” is the subdued reply, almost inaudible above the sounds of the subway. “I really don’t know.”

 

\--

 

The hospital room smells of antiseptic, and there is coldness with a touch of despair in the air. It makes Jeno think of starched sheets, his legs bulging in plastered casts and pain that made him cry through the night. Shaking the memories away, he lets Jaemin lead him up to the bed, his knees knocking against the metal bar holding the mattress above the ground.

“Jaemin?” The voice is weak, old from wear and tear of life. “Son, is that you?”

“Yeah,” Jaemin sounds exhausted, older than his age. “You’re awake.”

Frowning, Jeno leans onto Jaemin’s shoulder for a brief moment. “Have you been visiting him often?”

“Who’s that?” Tightness enters the old man’s voice, as if wary after all the things life has thrown at him. “Who did you bring with you?”

“Um,” Hesitantly, Jaemin touches Jeno’s elbow. “This is Lee Jeno. Jeno, this is…” the words take some effort to work their way out of Jaemin’s mouth, like they’ve been clogged inside for too long. “This is my father,” he says finally, quietly.

Jeno bows down low, hand supporting at his stomach. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Na.”

Without returning the greeting, the man grunts. “What’s wrong with his eyes?”

Beside Jeno, Jaemin inhales sharply. “He’s blind,” he replies shortly, but his father is far from taking the cue to end the discussion.

“Blind? What’d he do, drugs? Get into a fight?”

Jaemin tenses obviously, fingers stiffening at Jeno’s elbow. Sensing this, Jeno cuts in to reply for him. “I don’t believe it’s possible to become blind by excessive drug use, Mr. Na.”

“Are you smart-mouthing me? You—”

“Mr. Na,” a syrupy female voice interrupts whatever potential profanity Jaemin’s father is about to utter. “It’s time for your medicine.” Her music is overwhelmingly sweet and cheesy to Jeno’s ears, but it makes him aware enough to realize that he has not heard any music from Jaemin’s father, either. He turns back in the direction of the bed.

“Mr. Na,” Jaemin’s hand flits a warning against his elbow. “Do you listen to music?”

"Music?” There’s a scoff. “Idiot. Who needs music? Why, I haven’t listened to anything since—” suddenly, he comes to a stop, wheezy breaths lingering in the following silence.

“Since my mother died.” Jaemin's tone is listless, almost devoid of emotion.

The sound of curtains being drawn is loud in the aftermath, rings scraping against the metal rod, a whoosh of cold air from the ruffling of the fabric. The nurse’s high heels are crisp in sound as she walks around the bed, and Jeno feels the cloth of her uniform sweep his thigh as she moves to the bedside table to pour medicine.

“Visiting hours are over,” she informs them, her voice a notch quieter, apologetic.

“It’s okay, we were just about to leave anyway.” Jaemin’s voice is weirdly strong and confident, nonchalance smeared across the shattered pain Jeno pieces together in his ears. “Goodbye, Father.”

They don’t wait for an answer before Jaemin is dragging Jeno out of the room, down the air-conditioned atmosphere of the hallway. Jeno struggles to keep up with Jaemin’s suddenly fast pace, hand urging him onwards and into the elevator.

“Jaemin—”

“Shush,” they step out onto the first floor, into the merging chatter of doctors and family members passing by the doors. “I don’t want to hear it.” He sounds on the verge of breakdown, the harshness of his voice a cover-up for the vulnerability Jeno hears within.

“Jaemin.”

“Please, Jeno, not right now,” the wind outside is picking up, blowing in gusts at the hems of their jackets. Jaemin’s arms come around his figure as if to prevent the cold, guiding him down the steps into the warmth of electric lights in the subway station.

Persistent, Jeno comes to a stop at the bottom of the steps, causing Jaemin to freeze in surprise. “Jaemin,” he says insistently, and moves to stand against the wall in order not to block any passerby. “Jaemin, you—”

“God, Jeno, can’t you understand that I don’t want you to speak right now!”

It’s the loudest Jeno has ever heard Jaemin raise his voice, and everything around them falls silent for a moment (save the music of others that seems almost distant in Jeno ears), tension strung high in the atmosphere between them. Gradually, though, the murmur of passerby increases once again, resuming normal footsteps and hurried conversations in through the tunnel of the entrance.

Jaemin is quiet, hand trembling where it comes in contact with Jeno’s elbow. “I’m sorry,” comes the faint whisper, and Jeno shakes his head, lips pressing together into a line.

“Jaemin,” he waits for a beat, but the other says nothing more. “I love you.”

The hand at his elbow drops, and there’s a lingering, heavy silence. Anxiety worms its way into Jeno’s heart, stooping down low as he tries to imagine the expression on Jaemin’s face, all the possible reactions. Just as he begins to curse himself for taking a step too far, he hears the soft, shaky breathing of a sob, the curbing of tears. “Jaemin?”

“You idiot,” Jaemin sounds teary, hands landing upon Jeno’s face, cupping his cheeks. “Idiot, idiot, idiot.” he mutters.

Confused, Jeno cradles one of the hands on his cheek. “Why?”

There’s a watery laugh, only slightly amused before lips are on his, the salty taste of tears mixing into their mouths, the remnants of Jaemin’s smile. When they break away for air, Jaemin draws close, hands clasping around the back of his neck and fingers curling stray strands of his hair. Gently, Jeno reaches upwards to find the contours of Jaemin’s face, his thumb rubbing at the wetness that trails down familiar cheekbones.

Moving forward, Jaemin shakes his hand off, burying the tears into his shoulder. “I love you, too,” Jaemin muffles into the fabric in between silent sobs, “I always have.”

Jeno laughs, running a soothing hand down the other’s back. “So have you forgiven him?”

“Yes, that bastard,” Jaemin’s laughter is shaky, figure trembling. “I guess I forgave him a long time ago.”

With a knowing smile, Jeno presses a kiss to the top of Jaemin’s head, rocking them back and forth as he waits for Jaemin’s sobs to subside.

They stay like that for a long, long time.

 

\--

 

Jaemin receives the news of his father’s death two weeks later, while they are sitting on a park bench not far from Jaemin’s hometown. The hospital is visible on the horizon, Jaemin tells him, just beneath the streaked colors of the setting sun–-blue, red, purple, gray, orange, yellow, everything.

Jeno tilts his head in the general direction with a sad smile. He fingers the strands of hair blowing away from Jaemin’s face in the wind, the thin, large scarf Jaemin has tied around his neck. “You can forgive yourself now,” he says after a moment, the dial tone still droning distantly from the phone clutched tightly in Jaemin's palm.

The strands of hair fly away from his touch as Jaemin turns his head. “Yeah,” is the whispered reply, a medley of emotions reflected in Jaemin’s voice. “I guess I can.” He pauses. “Goodbye, Father.” There is peace and finality in his voice.

As Jaemin’s head rests down on his shoulder, low voice murmuring descriptions of the sunset into his ears ( _"The sunset is what Bach's Orchestral Suite in D Major would look like, I suppose,_ " Jaemin offhandedly mentions, remembering one of the classical tunes he'd listened to in Jeno's apartment), Jeno's smile morphs into one of relief and something akin to happiness.

Next to him, he begins to hear the faint notes of a melody, a dipping, soaring tune that travels in soft wisps to his ears. On the surface, the sound is a modern beat that his heart thumps along to, cool and unyielding. But beneath the initial tune, Jeno hears another melody, one with increasing intensity. It is raw and sweet-sounding, gentle and soothing as the notes blend and linger and draw out. _Like the color white and pink_ , Jeno thinks. It's the most beautiful music he has ever encountered, a lone tune that tears through him and leaves his heart in ripped, singing pieces. It grows nearer, closer, swirling and twirling into the air above their heads, dancing between their laced fingers that rest on Jaemin’s thigh. It lowers itself downwards, mends itself into the cracks of pain, makes Jeno offer a smile. It’s strong and defined now, in his ears. It is so much of everything that it has been stripped down to the very core, so much of everything that it has become just one tune, just one voice, ringing clearer and brighter than anybody’s.

Jeno continues to smile as he pulls Jaemin tighter, pressing a gentle kiss on his forehead. It is Jaemin’s music, and he is hearing it for the very first time, playing as sweetly as possible, gradually getting louder.

 

♪   FIN   ♪

**Author's Note:**

> i. In music, _crescendo_ is a term for "gradually getting louder", while _dolcissimo_ means "playing the music as sweet as possible".  
> ii. The idea came to me while trying (key word: _trying_ ) to study for a career-defining exam, so of course I found a reason to procrastinate and just went with it, resulting in this 10K word vomit. It's meant to be vague and subject to interpretation. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> iii. To clarify, '00 line are around 22-23 years old. Haechan, Renjun, and Jaemin are models, while Jeno is a musician, and they all belong to the same agency.


End file.
